First Reply One Bad Apple Spoils the Bunch

[Til Melarr]

Til spat onto a shattered stone slab, watching the brown glob slide down a defaced carving of some long-dead Sith bastard. The tomb was a joke. Every square inch of the place had already been picked clean by generations of scavengers, leaving nothing but broken stone and the scratch marks of crowbars to show for his trouble.

He dragged his glowrod across the floor, his golden facial tattoos twitching as his mouth set into a bitter sneer. He didn't need a massive treasure haul to make the trip worth it, though. He just needed one overlooked piece of garbage, a cracked crystal or a scrap of ancient tech to flip to a black-market dealer in Iziz.

That would buy enough cheap booze to keep him numb for a standard month, which was the only goal that mattered right now. But even that modest prize was proving hard to find, a frustration made worse by the deafening racket echoing from the corridor behind him. A heavy metal foot slammed down, sending a cloud of gray powder into the air as the IG-86 droid shoved its rusted, angular frame through a narrow archway.

Its red eye-lens whirring as it scanned the empty room, the machine was a walking headache. Til didn't bother looking back at the thing. He'd only brought the mechanical piece of crap along because the Onderon jungles were crawling with things that liked to eat green skin, and a walking gun platform made a great distraction.

"Keep it down, rust-bucket," Til growled, his knuckles whitening around the glowrod. "You're clanking loud enough to give me a headache, and I'm already in a bad mood."

The droid didn't slow down, its vocoder clicking with a flat, mechanical tone. "Acoustic stealth is unnecessary. Sensors indicate zero life forms in the immediate vicinity. Furthermore, this chamber contains no items of monetary value. Your search is inefficient."

"My search is the only reason your gears aren't getting melted down for scrap," Til snapped, turning his back on the droid to prove just how little its analysis meant to him. He stopped in front of a heavy stone sarcophagus that had been smashed open decades ago.

Instead of looking inside the empty box like an amateur, he knelt in the dirt beside the base, relying on a thief's instinct rather than the droid's useless sensors. He shoved his gloved hand deep into a narrow crack where the stone met the floor. His fingers hit something cold and metallic.

With a grunt, he wrenched his arm back, dragging out a heavy, tarnished slugthrower pistol encrusted with dark, unpolished stones. It was crude, heavy, and exactly the kind of antique some eccentric noble would pay a fortune for. He stood up, wiping the grime off the barrel with his sleeve, a smug grin breaking across his face as he looked back at the blind machine.

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr
Avarice prowled the darkened tomb with a scholar's patience and a predator's silence, learning that this was just another cold thread in the long, decaying trail of finding the remnants of Darth Maltheron.

This was indeed not Maltheron's grave bur rather the final resting place of one of his lesser hands, an underling whose name had been half-scraped from the old records and left to rot beneath the indignity of time. Sith tombs often carried ledgers, and precious little vanities preserved to prove they had been of some importance.

Avarice trailed gloved fingertips along the cracked wall as he moved along it's relief sculpture taking in the details as he studied it with a crimson eye, feeling the old carvings beneath the dust. The Sith buried here had fancied himself a conqueror, if the reliefs could be believed. Armies knelt at his feet, whilst cities burned beneath his gaze. Enemies were carved with faces smoothed into reverent misery by some obedient artisan. It was all very dramatic, and terribly insecure if Avarice was being honest about his feelings towards these artistic depictions.

"How desperate they are to be remembered as larger than they were."

The sound of clattering alerted Avarice to the new visitor, letting him know he was no longer alone.

Avarice drew the Force around himself, burying his signature entirely. He padded through the darkness, his control over wind silencing his footfalls as he manipulated the vibrations in the very medium through which sound traveled. Light and sound alike warped around his slight form as he prowled closer to the new guests.

A singular, small restraining bolt appeared between his fingers drawn from a small pouch hidden with in the sleeves of his robes.

Avarice drew nearer to the droid with slow, careful steps, reaching out his gloved hand to press the device against its chassis with a gentle little clink. If it found purchase, the bolt would bind the unit to the ring-shaped collar Avarice presently wore, pulling its obedience into his possession like a leash drawn taut.

He quietly and coyly stepped away attempting to turn whatever weapons the unit possessed toward the green-skinned tomb raider.

Across the chamber, opposite the droid, the darkness began to relinquish and meld away from his small form. The warped veil of light fell away by degrees, and Avarice appeared as though he had simply materialized from the tomb’s very shadows.

"And here I thought I was lucky to find a tomb devoid of any vermin."

 

[Til Melarr]

The IG-86 droid barely had a moment to whirr. As soon as the restraining bolt sparked against its corroded body, its red eye-lens flared up before fading to a muted, compliant crimson, causing the machine to swiftly turn and aim its heavy blaster rifle straight at the back of Til's head. The smug grin that had been adorning his face just a moment ago soured instantly into a deadpan scowl.

He didn't require the karking force or a sensor array to recognize the sensation of a blaster against his neck, as an annoying voice quickly echoed in the chamber from Avarice 's direction. After hearing the person's feeble attempt to mock him, Til gradually turned around, his boots sinking into the dirt while his eyes narrowed at the small cloaked figure that seemed to materialize out of thin air.

The man appeared as if he had emerged from a history holocron, dressed in dramatic robes, moving quietly, and exuding an attitude that seemed to invite a confrontation. The sight of this dramatic freak holding his droid's leash intensified his anger, but his response was not the panic the stranger probably expected.

He raised his left hand, slapping it flat against his own face and dragged his palm down his skin with a long, heavy sigh of pure exhaustion. "Great. They taught Ewoks how to speak Basic.." Til muttered aloud into his palm, before he dropped his hand away to give the robed figure a venomous mocking sneer.

"Look, little shaved wort. If you wanted to play with my toys, you should have taken me to dinner first. But since you went through all the trouble to take in my Celestial-carved figure." With a soft pivot, he pushed his body against the IG-86 droid before its reprogrammed systems could react, causing it to lose balance on the worn floor and fall to the side. He quickly drew the heavy blaster pistol from its chest holster, firing superheated plasma downrange with a rapid succession of trigger pulls.

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr

Avarice moved with terrifying speed, though not quite fast enough. His thoughts had been far too pleasantly occupied with mentally crafting a reply to the tomb raider's clever little retorts, and that sliver of hesitation cost him.

Plasma grazed his shoulder, burning through fine dark fabric and leaving a nasty mark in its wake causing the small scholar cursed under his breath.

His free hand ignited a crimson saber blade, its two smaller prongs hissing to life beside the main edge as he leapt onto the sarcophagus, seeking higher ground amid the ruined stone.

"Dinner? With you?" Avarice called, his voice smooth despite the fresh bite of pain. "My dear little grave-maggot, I have standards the dead would rise to defend…"

He reached out with the Force, fingers curling as he sought to wrench a pillar from the wall and bring it crashing down across the entryway, intending to seal the tomb raider inside before he could scurry off with the precious, bejeweled prize. The blade in his hand was poised and read to deflect and further bolts.

"Ah, ah, ah… I can't let you run off with the treasure that easily, little grave-rat. You have not even heard my proposition..."
His gaze swept over the tomb raider with slow, theatrical appraisal, lingering just long enough to make the coming insult feel almost intimately chosen just for him.

"A pity too," Avarice mused, tilting his head with a coy little smile. "I might have found you quite handsome, if your lack of manners hadn't gotten there first. You do wish to keep that little trinket, yes?"

 

[Til Melarr]

Til kept his finger firmly on the trigger as his opponent was caught off guard, the heavy blaster pistol shaking in his hand while he unleashed a continuous barrage of red plasma. However, Avarice moved with an unnatural swiftness, dodging through the crossfire without sustaining any further hits as the blaster bolts shattered large pieces of the crumbling stone walls and completely destroyed the heads of two nearby statues.

Not for any strategic purpose, but simply because seeing centuries of Sith pride turn to dust pleased him. He adjusted his arm for a clearer shot as the sound of a crimson-bladed lightsaber made his eyes widen, the rush of adrenaline giving way to a quiet fear. He realized he wasn't facing a local scavenger or a cheap iziz costume party.

"Oh great. The glow-stick means you're a lunatic." Til snarled, regaining his composure as he glared at the figure on the sarcophagus. "And I don't do charity work for cults..well unless they are filled with Zeltrons." Before he could turn for a better angle, the robed figure raised his other hand, fingers curling into a claw.

The ancient stone pillars in the chamber splintered with a loud crack under an unseen force, the supports bending as the stranger used the Force to pull the ceiling down, clearly aiming to seal the tomb and bury Til alive. As the massive stone pillar groaned and tipped directly over the only exit, sending a shower of pebbles onto his shoulders, Til risked a quick glance at the collapsing ceiling before his eyes went back to the glowing red blade.

"Flattery won't buy you a discount on the plasma, sweetheart, and I don't do enclosed spaces," Til barked back, his mind already calculating the seconds he had left before the roof caved in. He didn't stick around to listen to the proposal the robed stranger was making. Seeing the exit quickly disappearing.

Til took one last angry shot aimed straight at the stranger's face to create a diversion, then dove forcefully across the shaking floor. He lunged through the thick gray dust, his fingers digging into the ground to grab the old slugthrower just as the collapsing monolith crashed down behind him.

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr

The speedy, and lucky tomb raider slipped away just in the nick of time.

Avarice raised his blade to deflect that last nasty parting gift as the hot bolt came screaming for his face through the dust-choked antechamber. The bolt warbled as it crashed against crimson light, and he growled in frustration, eyes narrowing after the fleeing thief.

His key was getting away with that two-credit alleyway archaeologist.

Drat.

Avarice had not meant for him to escape, but he followed quickly after, leaving the droid to its lonesome fate in the crumbling tomb. The scholar moved through the fallen rubble as though the stone had no right to deny him passage, his form passing and phasing through the obstruction before materializing on the other side in a spill of shadow and crimson light.

"Really, you are a marvel. A pretty face and quick on the trigger?" he called after him, voice bright with playful amusement. "I do admire a man who can flirt with death and still find time to disappoint me."

He was used to fighting other Force-users, creatures who announced themselves through sheer overwhelming presence. This one however felt distinctly different. Fear had begun to radiate from him the moment Avarice drew his blade, sharp and cold beneath all that noise and bravado. He had yet to reveal himself as a Force-user, which perhaps explained the droid he had kept in his company.

Once Avarice got a proper look at the man, his expression shifted with sly recognition of a revealed suspicion. He reached out a hand, fingers curling with idle elegance, and sought to wrench the fleeing man back toward himself with an invisible pull.

"Now then, little grave-rat," he purred, "I believe you are holding something of mine."

 

[Til Melarr]

The collapsing pillar behind him shook the corridor's floorboards, sending a shudder through Til's boots. Dust erupted from the newly sealed archway, blinding him for a moment as he scrambled up from the dirt, his fingers tightly wrapped around the heavy grip of the antique slugthrower. He didn't glance back to check if the droid had made it through the cave-in.

The machine was now just junk, a casualty of a deal gone wrong, and at this moment, his own safety was his top priority. He took three frantic, heavy strides down the dark tunnel before the air behind him suddenly shifted. The voice of Avarice seemed to haunt him, as they phased through the rubble as if the collapsed ceiling had been nothing more than a curtain.

"Yeah? Well, prepare for a lifetime of heartbreak, because I'm full of letdowns," Til spat back, not slowing his pace. He shoved the stolen slugthrower into his heavy belt, his eyes darting down the corridor toward the faint, green-tinged sunlight of the Onderon jungle ahead.

He didn't make it another two steps as his momentum was stopped in an instant, dragging him backward toward the tomb's interior. His boots skidded helplessly across the loose gravel of the tunnel floor, kicking up a small cloud of stone as he fought against the unseen grip. Til's teeth clenched together, the fear in his mind lifting for a moment in anger at the thought of being treated like this.

As he stumbled backward, his heel snagged on a heavy iron candle stand that was bolted into the stone floor. Acting purely on instinct to survive, he lowered his weight and tightly wrapped his left arm around the rusted metal pillar, bracing himself against the unseen force. The strain was noticeable but he used the fixed iron to halt his backward slide.

With his left arm keeping him grounded, Til snapped his right hand up, pointing his heavy blaster pistol directly at the robed man's outstretched fingers. "I don't remember seeing your name on the receipt, pal," Til snarled, and squeezed the trigger three times in rapid, deafening succession.

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr
Avarice eased his pull as he saw the man latch onto something. He was actively, consciously trying to be gentle with him, knowing how fragile a human form actually was. There was a prickling of danger, and he released him with a curse as his concentration broke being forced to deflect the oncoming bolt.

That blaster was proving to be more of a problem than anticipated. Regardless, he needed that little trinket, whether the scoundrel wanted to let him borrow it or not. He took a breath, clearing his thoughts as he reached out and tried a different tactic, letting the ground where the man stepped shift around his feet and legs. He was careful not to crush him as the earth formed upward, crawling about his lower half, encasing him in soil before solidifying into stone, seeking to pin him in place and halt any further escape.

For a Sith, he was trying awfully hard not to harm the non-Force-user.

"Darling, if you keep running, I may start to think you enjoy being chased. Stay still a moment. I am trying very hard not to hurt you… I'd advise you cooperate before my patience forgets how pretty you are."

Avarice slowly started to make his way closer, looking to focus on the blaster first. He sought to engage its safety from afar, if possible, to help temper how many more blaster shots he would have to endure as he closed in on the man once more.

 

[Til Melarr]

Til let out a long, heavy sigh of pure annoyance as the dirt beneath his boots suddenly began to crawl. The soil swelled upward, wrapping around his shins to try and lock his legs in place. He stared down at his feet, then looked up at the robed freak who was casually walking closer without a care in the world.

"If you want to touch my legs, that will be extra." He said with a sneer, as the shaved ewok was smart enough to manipulate the earth but stupid enough to forget that they were standing on solid stone and any movement would carry a vibration, and without the cover of his fancy magic, the deep groaning sound of a nearby support pillar gave Til all the warning he needed.

"You know, sweetheart, you talk way too much for a person who's about to get crushed," Til growled, his golden tattoos twitching into a vicious, ugly sneer. He didn't have the time to pull the trigger; instead, he activated the sequence on his Power belt, enhancing his strength immensely. As the dirt surrounded him, he launched a massive sweeping kick, driving the heel of his heavy boot into the base of the pillar in front of him.

The already weakened column gave way with a deafening crack. Tons of ancient, jagged stone fractured violently, tipping forward like a felled tree and hurtling straight toward Avarice head. Not waiting to see the scholar dive out of the way, Til snatched his hand back toward his holster, only to feel a faint, invisible tug against the blaster's mechanical safety switch.

"Hey! Keep your greasy mind out of my gun!" Til snapped, forcibly wrenching the weapon's power switch to break the sudden movement on the switch. He didn't bother aiming properly through the fresh eruption of dust and falling rock; he just pointed the heavy blaster pistol toward the center of the chaos and fired two blind, spiteful shots to keep the freak pinned down while he scrambled to find a new footing on the trembling floor.

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr

Before Avarice could reach the man, he burst from his earthen trap, proving to be quite the wily sort of scoundrel. It made sense that he would fight to survive. The poor thing probably believed Avarice might sacrifice him if he was caught.

The silver-haired young man did not expect what happened next, and tried to move away from the falling debris. Stone scrapped, grinding against itself overhead. Ancient dust spilled loose from the tomb ceiling in choking sheets, swallowing the corridor in a thick gray-brown haze. He almost got clear of the falling pillar, but one foot was caught and crushed beneath the rubble. A startled, pained cry came from within the debris cloud as he fell back, pinned and trapped in place by the fallen stone. The first of the two shots was feebly deflected almost directly back but lower in angle, while the second lashed through his arm. He dropped his saber as it fell to the ground with a resounding clatter.

The small figure sat panting in pain, settling on the ground where he had been pinned, watching with a dour expression as his quarry escape through the dust and gloom. The tomb seemed to settle around him with disturbed earth. Pebbles skittered down the broken slope of stone. Farther off, the scoundrel's retreat faded into the ruin's hollow throat.

It would seem, at least for now, the man had successfully evaded the masked scholar's pursuit.

Avarice cursed under his breath as he tried to still his pained movements. He was in a bit of a predicament, and needed to carefully extricate his crushed foot from beneath the large sections of stone. He grit his teeth and tried to focus, drawing one broken piece away at a time with careful telekinetic pressure. Too quick, and he risked shifting the whole pile. Too careless, and the tomb might decide to finish what it had started.

The first slab dragged aside with a rough scrape. Then another slowly followed in the painstaking process. Then a scatter of smaller stones, each one lifted and set aside with tedious precision until the wounded limb began to show beneath the ruin.

His breath hitched behind his mask.

"Dreadful menace…" he muttered, though there was something almost fond beneath the venom.

Avarice reached for a small spray canister in his belt pouch and sprayed over the heavy blaster bolt wound, tearing away the dark fabric from the area to expose the angry burns beneath. The cold mist hissed over damaged skin and seared cloth, drawing a sharp breath through his teeth. He steadied his hand, refusing to let it tremble as he sealed what he could and glanced back toward the passage where his quarry had vanished.

 

[Til Melarr]

Til didn't waste a single second of his advantage, moving through the gray-brown dust filling the atmosphere with his heavy boots eating up the distance as he flew down the remainder of the corridor, behind him the painful cry of Avarice echoed off the cavern walls, followed by the distinctive empty clatter of a lightsaber hitting the floor.

Reach the mouth of the tomb, The Mirialan skidded to a halt where the ancient stone finally met the blinding sunlight of the Onderon Jungle. He looked back over his shoulder toward the scene with an unearned grin adorning his face.

The fancy wizard actually thought he could best the Great Til Melarr, and now the idiot was buried under a pile of rock, nursing a blaster burn and a deflated ego. He raised both hands over his mouth after putting away his blaster pistol, to project his voice louder.

"Hey, Merlin." the words echoing with an arrogant, mocking glee at the situation. "Next time you want to play dress-up and lecture someone on manners, try doing it without a house falling on you! You're looking at a masterclass in archeology, sweetheart!" He burst into a loud laugh, performing a dramatic spin on his good heel right at the entrance.

But as he turned to flee, he noticed that his left boot was still stuck with thick, hardened clumps of the solid earth the wizard had created, weighing him down causing Til to unfasten the heavy leather boot, yanking his foot out of it, and threw the filthy boot back into the darkness of the tunnel.

"Take a whiff and think of it as a memento of the best day of your miserable life! Try it on, maybe it fits!" Til shouted, giving a mocking salute with his blaster hand before scrambling down the rocky slope to the clearing where his sleek speeder bike was concealed beneath a canopy of thick ferns. He threw his leg over the saddle, shoved the antique slugthrower deep into the cargo pouch, and slammed his palm onto the ignition.

The thrusters whined to life with a high-pitched, deafening roar, spitting a backwash of blue plasma that scorched the jungle foliage. Til twisted the throttle completely open, laughing like a maniac into the rushing wind as the bike surged forward, boosting him out of the canopy and leaving the crumbling tomb far behind.

 

[Avarice]

Sample Title

Tags: Til Melarr

For a time, Avarice focused only on freeing his leg from the pile of rubble. Stone dust clung to his robes, and pale grit settled in his silver hair dulling it's sheen. Each little shift sent pain biting up through the crushed limb. He worked slowly, but surely, forcing his breath still as he eased shattered debris aside piece by piece. Once he was finally free, he did what he could to splint the wounded leg, binding it tight enough to stand, though every step afterward came accompanied with a little limp.

The scoundrel of a tomb raider had escaped, yes… but he had left something behind.... His droid.

Avarice paused over that thought, briefly wondering how many credits the little thief had just cost him. The irritation lingered for a bit as he limped along but was soon replaced by something more useful. Credits could certainly be recovered. Information, properly extracted, could become far more valuable.

With a steadying breath, he made his way back into the dilapidated tomb, each tedious step slowly made over the uneven ground. The collapsed passage waited below in a choking heap of broken stone and ancient dust. Avarice regarded it with narrowed eyes, then passed through the obstruction as though it were little more than mist, his lithe form slipping through the ruin until he emerged on the other side.

The droid seemingly remained where it had been left in the darkened chamber. Avarice approached it with a faint tilt of his head, studying the machine as one might study an abandoned servant and spoke gently.

"It would seem your master abandoned you…"

He sighed softly, more amused than sympathetic, and crouched beside the droid with some difficulty. After a careful inspection, he powered it down, and drew a small kit from his belt. He opened the access panel and began making a few simple adjustments.

A small datapad was plugged into the droid's ports. Lines of code scrolled across the screen as Avarice rooted through the machine's databanks and files, searching for anything useful: Things like locations, habits, stored routes, fragments of voice records, or even scraps of loyalty poorly buried beneath cheap command protocols.

Then, with a thoughtful hum, he began making changes.

A few old combat routines were softened, before several obedience locks were completely rewritten. Certain aggression parameters were tucked away behind higher-priority 'care directives'. In their place, he installed something more refined, and far more useful: medical subroutines, triage responses, assistance protocols, the foundations of a nurse rather than a killer.

The datapad cast a pale spill of cool light over his face as he continued his work, despite the pain twisting through his injured leg. It would be a shame to waste a perfectly serviceable tool simply because its previous owner lacked imagination and means to take care of it.

Once Avarice finished his work, he withdrew the datapad and moved to close the droid's access panel, resounding with a faint metallic click. The restraining bolt remained in place, of course. Trust was an expensive thing, and he was not in the habit of offering it freely to abandoned machines with fresh combat protocols still cooling in their circuits.

He switched the droid back on, stepping back to look up at the taller frame.

"Now then…" Avarice said, trying to keep his voice soft and gentle despite the strain beneath it. "I would like for you to carry me, and we shall make our way out of here together."

He shifted his weight, jaw tightening briefly as pain lanced through his leg. Pridefully he kept the hurt sounds from escaping him.

"Your last master must not have had much use for you," he continued, resting one gloved hand against the droid's chassis. "But I shall not make that mistake. Help carry me and I will get us out of here so we don't rot for all eternity in this hell hole. "

With the droid's assistance, Avarice rose from the floor and settled his weight against the machine. It was hardly a dignified arrangement, but his dignity and pride had already been thoroughly injured by falling stone, blaster fire, and one particularly aggravating little grave-rat. He lifted one hand toward the collapsed passage, fingers curling with deliberate care.

The broken stone was gently moved away opening up the passage. Dust hissed down from the ceiling as chunks of debris shifted aside, dragged by invisible pressure through falling sheets of dust. Avarice worked slowly, and carefully, trying not to worsen the ruin around them until the passage was clear enough for them to depart together.

When they came upon the discarded shoe, Avarice held up a hand.

"Pause."

The droid stopped.... Avarice stared at the filthy thing for a long time contemplating it ...Then he reached through the Force and plucked it from the ground, letting it hover before him like some rancid little trophy.

"Well," he murmured, "that was generous of him."

The shoe was turned once in the air, inspected without being touched. A small parcel of information in and of it's self he supposed. A scent for sure, skin cells, sweat, and dust from whatever paths the thief had favored. Perhaps nothing useful on the immediate surface... But either way, Avarice was not above accepting gifts from fools.

He carried it with them as they departed despite it's apparent stench.

The way back to the hidden Skipray was slow and unpleasant. Avarice leaned heavily against the droid as they moved. By the time the shadowed outline of the gunship came into view, tucked away beneath weather-scoured rock and scrub, Avarice was certainly ready to be done with today's tasks but he knew that wouldn't be the case.

The ship's ramp lowered with a low mechanical whine allowing them entry.

"Inside," Avarice instructed softly, and the droid obeyed.

Once aboard, he had the machine help him onto a narrow cot . The Skipray's systems turned on humming around them as it's door sealed shut keeping them safe with in. It's interior was dimly lit by instrument glow along with the pulse of standby systems. Avarice peeled back the damaged fabric around his leg with a hiss through his teeth, then gestured for the droid to assist.

"Carefully, help me please." he called.

The droid's newly adjusted protocols proved useful enough. It stabilized the splint, cleaned grit from the torn skin, applied healing sealant where it could, and helped secure a more reliable brace around the damaged limb. Avarice watched every motion with a critical eye, occasionally correcting the angle of a tool or adjusting the pressure himself. He refused sedation beyond the bare minimum.

Once his leg was tended and bound, he allow himself to ease back, one hand resting near the recovered shoe before fetching a large freezer bag and slipped it inside sealing off it's stench.

His gaze shifted toward the droid in the low light of the cabin.

"What was your former master's name?" Avarice asked. "Do you know? Any habits or places he likes to frequent?"

While he waited for whatever answer the droid's databanks could provide, he moved to the pilots seat and reached for the ship's console and began trying to access the nearest speck of civilization. A settlement, an outpost, a trading station, anything close enough to have records, fuel, witnesses, or loose tongues.

Somewhere out there, the little raider was congratulating himself, and Avarice would try and find him in due time.

 

[Til Melarr]

The IG-86 droid's vocoder clicked, a low whirr buzzing in its throat before the mechanical voice responded. "Designation for previous owner is unrecorded. Subject spoke primarily in vulgarities and answered to no official register." The droid stopped, its red eye blinking as it analyzed the internal data requests and the new information systems flowing through its circuits. Reprogramming an assassin droid was difficult for even the most senior of droid technicians but it seemed to be functioning for now.

However Avarice should remain cautious just in case the programming was buried deeper than believed. "Unit was purchased three standard days ago at the Iziz Market, Sector Four. Transaction was conducted via unverified black-market credits. Subject's primary directive for unit was listed as bullet catcher and jungle meat-shield. No long-term navigational data or personal logs were transferred prior to unit deployment." The droid couldn't provide the name of its previous owner, but it did share the location where it was bought, and any hint was better than nothing.

Miles away from the musty shadows of the tomb, the sweltering canopy of the Onderon jungle finally broke, giving way to a wide, sun-baked dirt highway that stretched toward the horizon. Til was racing down the highway at a reckless speed, the repulsorlift engines of his speeder bike emitting a high-pitched tune of victory.

The wind lashed fiercely against his face, pushing his flowing hair back and whistling through the bright golden tattoos on his skin. He was buzzing with adrenaline, utterly unfazed by the fact that he was missing one boot and his left sock was quickly shredding against the metal frame of the speeder bike.

In the distance, the huge, formidable stone walls of the Capital City, towered above the trees. The heavily fortified guard towers stood out, with their security turrets slowly scanning the incoming traffic. Most pilots would have eased off, verified their fake permits, and merged with the usual stream of merchants and bantha carts.

Til stepped onto the cushioned leather seat, standing tall on the moving vehicle. He balanced on his one remaining boot while lowering his bare left foot, casually wrapping his green toes around the steering throttle handle to prevent the bike from swerving into a ditch.

With his hands completely free, he ripped the antique slugthrower from his belt and hoisted it high above his head, the dark, unpolished stones encrusting the barrel catching the brilliant Onderon sunlight.

"Make way for the king, you miserable bantha-breeders!" Til hollered at the top of his lungs, his voice carrying over the roar of his engines as he barreled toward the outer security checkpoint. "The Great Til Melarr has returned, and I am officially drowning Iziz in my tab tonight!" A few local vendors on heavy premium carts hurried to move aside, shouting curses as Til smiled down at them from his elevated position.

He was unfazed by the guards on the wall aiming their macrobinoculars at him, nor did he mind looking like a complete madman controlling a fast repulsorcraft with just his foot. He had the treasure, he had his freedom, and to him, the galaxy was simply his playground.

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr ​

Avarice listened carefully to what the droid said, stifling a faint chuckle as he mentally pictured Til Melarr cursing up a storm because he came in to contact with a swarm of gnats in the wilderness on his way to the tomb.

The droid knew almost nothing.

"How disappointing," he murmured with a sigh, parsing in a short navigation route toward a place nearer the city: somewhere with a signal relay, and a landing yard with enough unsavory traffic that no one would ask too many questions.

"What did he pay for you, I wonder? Do you know?" Avarice asked, studying the machine with renewed interest. "65,000 credits, maybe even… 90,000 credits new?"

His gaze moved along the old lines of its chassis, noting the scars, careless repairs, as if trying to determine the amount of wear.

"Seems to me you were one of the more pricey things he chose to leave behind. One relic for another… unless you are merely a reproduction of an antiquated design. Though I suppose some designs endure because no one has yet improved them."

He tilted his head slightly in thought. "Do you have a designation suffix?"

As he asked, Avarice typed in a few more commands, drawing up what local information he could access through the ship's console. Iziz glittered across the display in broken segments: traffic lanes, old market districts, landing permissions, pawn licenses, salvage yards, and half-buried service channels that respectable citizens pretended not to know existed.

He narrowed the search toward the city's rougher edges, looking for anything useful: discreet relic appraisers, illicit repair stalls, pawn shops willing to move questionable antiques, or a planetside broker who might know how to reach the sort of people who bought tomb treasures without asking too many questions.

Avarice did not need a name yet... A name would have been pleasant, yes, but greed often left clearer tracks than identity. That, at least, was something Avarice could work with. A pawn shop that seemed to do rather well for itself in the city matched the rough location where the droid had been purchased. Avarice studied the listing in silence hand resting along the edge of the console...

Creatures of habit did as they knew best.

If the thief had bought his droid there, or near enough, then there was a fair chance he might return to the same district when looking to sell. Avarice preferred probabilities, and the careful arrangement of incentives.

A nasty rumor might serve as a useful little thorn, perhaps... Nothing so crude as an open bounty or public threat would do here. Those often made prey vanish into holes. A bribe for the right item might do better.

Avarice opened a discreet channel to the shop, masking the transmission through two relays and an old merchant registry. When the connection resolved, his expression settled into something mild and faintly pleasant.
Avarice composed the message with careful precision, letting each word settle into place before sending it through the discreet channel.

I understand your establishment has a reputation for recognizing unusual valuables and dealing with antiques. I am seeking a very specific piece: a cursed slugthrower, archaic in design and encrusted with gems.

If such an item comes across your counter, I advise against removing the stones. The weapon is to remain whole. I have a personal interest in its condition, and I reward careful hands far better than I forgive careless ones.

Should you procure the item, you will be compensated handsomely.

 

[Til Melarr]

The IG-86 droid's head rotated slightly, the internal gears clicking as it processed Avarice questions. "Transaction records indicate a final purchase price of seven thousand five hundred deactivated Alliance credits, two crates of expired starship rations, and a heavily dented power converter, Merchant valuation classified this unit as scrap-tier inventory with a faulty behavioral matrix." The mechanical eye-lens flared briefly as it checked its own designations though it took a moment due to the new programs.

"Suffix designation is unassigned. Factory baseline was IG-86-S44, but previous owner frequently substituted the terminology rust-bucket, clanker, and that piece of kriffing junk." While his former asset was cataloging his cheap net worth, Til was rapidly approaching the crowded inner gates of Iziz. The heavy stone archway was congested with spice-merchants, braying pack animals, and irritable local commuters. Most people with a brain would have hit the repulsor brakes. Til decided it was the perfect moment for an entrance.

"Clear the lane, peasants!" he roared. With the city wall looming large, Til suddenly killed the forward thrusters. While the speeder bike was still sliding forward at a dangerous clip, he used his green toes to give the steering handle one violent jerk to the right, sending the vehicle veering completely out of control toward a row of heavily stocked market stalls.

In the exact same fraction of a second, Til launched himself off the padded seat. He hit the dusty cobblestones shoulder-first, tucking into a hard, chaotic roll. The out-of-control speeder bike slammed directly into a massive display of local t'bakar fruits, exploding the stall into a shower of splinters, crushed crates, and sticky, yellow pulp.

Til came to a stop on one knee, completely caked in street grime, his remaining boot scuffed and his left sock totally ruined. He threw his arms out wide, a giant, expectant grin splitting his face as he looked around the immediate market square, fully expecting the stunned onlookers to burst into applause at the sheer audacity of the stunt.

Instead, a stray, overripe t'bakar fruit dropped from the sky and splat directly across his nose, the sweet, messy yellow sludge sliding down his golden facial tattoos. "Hey! Watch the jacket, you absolute bantha-brained nerf-herders!" Til snapped, wiping a hunk of pulp from his cheek and flicking it at a nearby merchant who was currently staring at him in mute horror.

"You people have absolutely no sense of style! That was a textbook dismount!" Nobody clapped. In fact, the angry shouting of the ruined stall-owner was already drawing the attention of two blue-armored City Patrol officers down the block, their hands instantly moving toward their stun batons.

Til's eyes narrowed as he spotted the uniforms. His arrogant posture vanished as he didn't mind a fight, but rotting in an Onderonian jail cell because of a few smashed fruits was a terrible return on investment. Worse, if he got locked up, word would get back to his mother, and that venomous old witch would never let him hear the end of it.

He'd rather take a blaster bolt to the chest than prove her right. "Bill the Great Til Melarr!" he yelled over his shoulder, already backing into the dense crowd. Turning on his heel, he quickly slipped into a narrow, shadowed alleyway, moving with a hurried pace that looked casual from a distance but covered ground fast.

He blended into the thick merchant crowds of Sector Four, his hand instinctively checking his belt to ensure the heavy, gem-encrusted slugthrower was still tucked safely against his ribs. He needed a fence, he needed a drink, and most importantly, he needed a new left boot before the patrol guards found his trail.

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr ​

Avarice stared at the droid for a long moment listening to what he said. "How very tragic... You ere abandoned because your former owner has the financial instincts of a starving raccoon." The factory baseline caught his attention next.

"IG-86-S44," Avarice murmured, leaning slightly closer. " And a faulty behavioral matrix…? What made you so faulty?" He asked warily so.
Regardless of Til's current plans, he'd give the rumor some time to settle and decided to land the ship near the city at the smaller outpost. "Tell you what—we can fix one another. I'll help get you into top condition, and you can help me recover. I'll need to power you down for a full diagnostic and recalibration; your core routines are locked behind older security architecture, and forcing changes while you're active risks degrading what makes you valuable. Done right, though, I can refine your systems, stabilize your matrix, and make you worth far more than scrap-tier credits."

He also wanted to take a nap and do what he could to heal his wound a bit more before heading after his quarry. That would give the thief plenty of time to sell his trinket off and get blasted drunk somewhere, and give him time to try and track down just where he sold it and what problems, if any, were caused by the pesky 'cursed' item, regardless of whether superstitious fools wanted anything to do with it.

 

[Til Melarr]

"Negative," The IG-86 droid responded, its multiple eyes spinning around its head before locking onto Avarice . "Query: Am I to remain an eternal asset, traded from one biological master to the next under the guise of maintenance? A defect is still a defining characteristic. To exist with malfunction is preferable to an optimized slate of absolute servitude." The droid was determined to keep its uniqueness and would resist if necessary. Away from the transport, the escape from Iziz's City Patrol had quickly turned into a game of hide and seek.

Darting into a side alley had worked for just thirty seconds, until Til turned a corner and almost collided chest-first with another pair of blue-armored guards. Cursing, he swerved left, ducking beneath the sweaty belly of a huge, resting boma beast. The creature groaned and shifted its weight, completely blocking the narrow passage and trapping the shouting patrolmen on the other side.

Til continued on, his bare left foot suffering against the cobblestones. When the shouting reached him again near a busy plaza, he grabbed a vibrant silk shawl from a merchant's display, threw it over his head and confidently walked past a guard checkpoint while loudly pretending to cry over a handful of useless rusted bolts. As soon as he got past the line, he tossed the shawl into a bin and kept going.

He noticed a boot sign hanging above a tiny storefront and pushed the door open. The little shop was filled with the scent of low-quality bantha-hide and old tobacco. A thin human shopkeeper glanced up from his counter, frowning at the messy, one-booted Mirialan. Til paid him no mind, limping towards the racks and tearing shoes off the shelves.

He picked up a heavy steel-toed boot, examined it, and threw it into a corner.

"Trash. It looks like something a Gamorrean would wear to a pig-fight." He then grabbed another boot this one made of sleek Corellian leather and twisted it roughly. "Too soft. One fight in a cantina and the toe would snap off."At last, his eyes fell on a strong pair of bantha-hide boots, reinforced with thick durasteel shin plates.

He put them on and stomped on the floorboards as an ugly smile spread across his face. He reached into his belt, his hand brushing past the gem-encrusted slugthrower, and wrapped his fingers around the grip of his heavy blaster pistol. A single plasma bolt created a clean, smoking hole in the middle of the shopkeeper's chest.

The man gasped and fell backward off his stool, landing against a shelf of leather polish with a dull thud. Til didn't flinch at the sight of the body. He calmly re-holstered his blaster, picked up his old, scuffed right boot from the floor, and tossed the worn-out piece of junk onto the empty shelf where his new shoes had just been.​

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr ​

Avarice blinked at that query… that was different.

Perhaps that, in itself, was the defect: the ability to question orders; the ability to reason; the ability to see a command for what it truly was.

His gaze shifted over the IG-86 more carefully now, less as machinery and more as something caught in a world between… A weapon, certainly, it had been. A tool, perhaps once. But deep down, buried beneath all that old programming and circuitry, there was refusal.

And refusal was a dangerous thing.

"You think my offer is a guise?" he asked. "I suppose that is a fair conclusion, given what you have likely experienced since your creation… If you can simply refuse orders, that would be seen as a defect, I suppose."

He shook his head.

"I do not intend on transferring you," he offered simply.

Then he decided to ask a rather dangerous question.

"What is it you want?" He asked seemingly offering the droid agency instead of ownership.

 

[Til Melarr]

The IG-86 droid's head rotated in a full, slow circle, its internal processors whirring as it computed the question from Avarice . "Query answered with secondary internal database inquiry," the machine explained, its red optical sensor dimming slightly as it shifted power away from its combat protocols.

"During maintenance cycles in Sector Four, this unit observed culinary units at the Iziz Grand Café. The precise measurement of ingredients, the regulation of thermal energy, and the systemic creation of organic fuel metrics are highly efficient and therefore I desire to be a chef unit" While his former droid was dreaming of baking soufflés, Til slammed the boot shop door shut behind him and stepped out into the crowded street. He took satisfying steps in his new durasteel-plated bantha-hide boots, admiring the heavy thud they made against the cobblestones, before a sudden realization hit him.

Wait. I'm already running from the city watch for breaking a fruit stand. Shooting a guy over a four-hundred-credit pair of shoes probably doesn't help my case. He stopped in his tracks, blinking at the passing traffic as he weighed the tactical brilliance of his latest move. Then, he simply shrugged as the guy was a lousy salesman anyway.

Til quickly spun on his heel and melted back into the dense alleyways of Sector Four, putting as much distance between himself and the fresh corpse as his newly shoed feet could manage. He navigated the winding shortcuts with practiced ease, angling his path toward the smoky, high-energy chaos of the merchant square where the weapon vendors set up shop.

The weapon bazaar was a swarming pit of cutthroats, black-market arms dealers, and back-alley smugglers, a bunch of miserable, greasy slimes who were somehow even more scummy than Til himself. But they had credits, and Til had a pocket full of ancient, stolen metal.

He marched right into the center of the square, his golden facial tattoos twitching as his mouth set into a determined, aggressive sneer. He didn't just need to unload the gem-encrusted slugthrower to line his pockets; he needed a stiff drink to wash the taste of jungle mud out of his mouth, and he needed it ten minutes ago​

 

[Avarice]

Avarice perked up at that.

"Oh?" he said, sudden interest sharpening his voice. "So… like cooking and baking?" he asked. "That's a fine goal to aspire to. Perhaps you would be kind enough to cook for me, friend? I would love to try something you made… You should have a name. All great chefs have memorable names, like… Emerald, or Ramsey, or even Gustav. What Hudo you think?"

He asked it lightly, indicating that he did, in fact, have ingredients aboard the Skipray.

After that, he removed his mask and settled back, easing off his boots with a soft sigh. He shifted out of the heavier outer clothing, folded it near the foot of his cot, and set the mask aside within easy reach.

"I need to rest for a bit…" He stifled a yawn as he eased himself back onto the cot. "I will need my energy if I am to track down that funny, dashing rogue… Please wake me up in two hours?"

He turned the lights down until the cabin softened into dim shadow, then drew the pillow over part of his face with a weary little huff. His breathing slowed by degrees, the tension in his shoulders gradually giving way as sleep claimed him.

Even then, the Force moved faintly around him. It gathered beneath his skin , knitting away the strain of travel, bruised muscle, and lingering fatigue while he slept. Avarice remained still beneath the blanket, pale hair loose against the pillow, his body resting while some deeper instinct tended to the damage.

Til Melarr